


Suspire

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, M/M, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 08:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10532352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Elrond tries to hold off as long as he can, but Lindir insists on satiating his lord.





	1. Osprey

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Heads: I didn’t follow any specific vampire rules aside from what worked best for me, which seems fair game given Tolkien’s generality with it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His nights have become increasingly difficult, his days more so, and he finds his vision blurring in the evening. He has to set down his quill and bend over the parchment, letting his head clear in the shadows of his office. The curtains are drawn against the falling sun, candles providing ample light to work. The light isn’t the trouble.

It’s been too long since he last fed. He knows it, can feel it, and there comes a part where he actually starts to _breathe_ again, only to draw the unnecessary air in quickly and expel it at a rapid pace, trying to fill other organs in place of his stomach. His lungs are no substitute. Drawing his fingers together, Elrond reclines in his chair, and he casts his mind to the unpleasant task of choosing his next victim. Even the word feels wrong.

A knock sounds on his door, and though he knows he should growl a warning, his parched throat calls, “Come in.”

Lindir slips inside. Of course it would be him. Others know to shy away from their lord when he gets like this, and he’s sure his wariness of late has become all too obvious. But Lindir quietly closes the door and strolls forward without caution, dipping into a low bow and offering a rolled leaf of parchment across the desk.

Elrond takes it and sets it aside without looking at it. He was careful not to brush his fingers over Lindir’s. The tantalizing feeling of skin on skin, especially _Lindir’s_ skin, so soft and delicate, is too much at this time. Elrond means to dismiss him, but before the words are out, Lindir murmurs from his continued bow, “You must feed, my lord.”

Elrond winces, glad, at least, that Lindir’s eyes are averted. He knows, deep down, that he should sail. He thinks constantly of suffering the rushing water to reach the shores of Valinor, where he can, perhaps, be healed from the curse of Sauron. But he couldn’t bear leaving his children behind, not yet. And Lindir...

Lindir is too lovely. Elrond turns his head away, fixating on a bookshelf, and says only, “No.”

“My lord—”

“Not yet,” Elrond hisses, though he knows it will have to be _soon_. Sometimes he thinks it would be better if he just allowed himself to fade. But it would pain his children irreparably, and he doesn’t know if Lindir would recover.

Lindir would have to. He’s young. He has time to find better, purer lords to serve. Elrond can hear his breath hitch, and then Lindir takes a step around the desk—a bold move for him. In a shaken voice that Elrond knows is from fear of rejection rather than fear of this curse, Lindir presses, “Lord Elrond, _please_. It has been far too long. You are fading again. You cannot last—”

Elrond growls a warning, “Lindir,” but Lindir, so uncharacteristic for him, doesn’t listen.

Lindir, the most obedient servant Elrond’s ever had, drops to his knees right before Elrond’s chair, and pries open the top of his robes. The movement catches Elrond’s eyes, and he’s unable to turn away from Lindir’s slender fingers swiftly pushing each button through its loop. Lindir draws his collar back, bearing his throat, and he arches it forward, lifting his chin, peering up through half-lidded lashes. He begs, “Take me, my lord. I am ready, and I am willing. I _wish_ for you to drink from me.” He pauses, nervously licking his lips, pink and wet around his duller teeth. When Elrond says nothing, he draws in a breath and whispers, “You... you said last time that you enjoyed the taste of me. I have fed no other, my lord. I would not dare; I am yours. My blood will still taste as you like it...”

That’s hardly the problem, and Elrond shakes his head. He still regrets that time. He regrets _every time_ , though it always feels rapturous in the moment. Lindir is too sweet for it; his body is too young, too divine for such brutal treatment. But he crawls closer on his knees, until his hands are tentatively placed on Elrond’s knees, and he pleads, “I beg of you, my lord. _Take me_. Please, it is all I want—” He cuts off in a sharp gasp as Elrond abruptly reaches down to grab his hair, jerking him up by it—Lindir rises as fast as he’s pulled. Even then, Elrond tries to resist, but he isn’t strong enough to face the flushed look of Lindir’s cheeks. 

He pulls Lindir into his lap, and Lindir goes easily, clutching to Elrond’s chest for support and allowing Elrond to wrench open the rest of his robes—Elrond has no wish to stain them. He tears them wider than he needs, pulling them down Lindir’s sloping shoulders, until there’s a plethora of creamy skin bared for him. Lindir looks up at him with such devotion that Elrond’s heart clenches—a phenomenon that’s become eerily unfamiliar.

He can’t look in Lindir’s eyes. He turns Lindir around instead, pushing him back, then pulling him close again, his spine arched along Elrond’s chest. Lindir subserviently sweeps his long hair over one shoulder and tilts his neck aside.

It’ll hurt, Elrond knows. It’ll have to. Lindir’s breath is quick, and Elrond thinks it’s mostly from anticipation, but it could also be laced with fear. Elrond’s head hooks over Lindir’s shoulder, his lips brushing along Lindir’s jaw, and Lindir keens and arches for it. 

He knows he crosses more than one line when he does this, but it’s all he can think of to ease the pain. Lindir’s no warrior. He needs some distraction. So Elrond begins gathering Lindir’s robes up his knees, then up his waist, and reaches below them, sliding along his sensitive thighs. Lindir moans and squirms, already bucking forward. By the time Elrond’s cupping Lindir’s crotch, Lindir’s flushed from head to foot. Elrond can even feel the faint tingling of sensation that he still equates with temperature, and he knows for his dead flesh to feel that, Lindir’s skin must be burning. 

Lindir’s wet in his hands. There’s no fabric left between them—Lindir must have come without his undergarments for just this purpose. Elrond feels a twinge of guilt for Lindir’s sacrifice, and he mutters, “You must stop me if—”

“No,” Lindir insists, breathless but firm. “I want to, my lord.” His body seems to concur. He’s more slick between his legs than any Elrond’s ever felt. But Elrond still doesn’t let himself believe it. 

He kneads Lindir gently anyway, until he’s deemed Lindir aroused enough to slip one finger inside. Lindir groans at the breach, head lolling back onto Elrond’s shoulder, And Elrond pistons lightly in, sinking a little deeper every time. He’s fed Lindir his entire hand before, but he always goes slowly nonetheless, and he knows Lindir has commented before on the thickness and length of his fingers. He knows Lindir has asked for _more_. But that, at least, is one line Elrond has yet to cross. He strokes between Lindir’s folds with only his hand, his thumb flicking purposefully at the little bud near the top. Lindir’s body trembles. When Lindir is moaning and writhing on two fingers, Elrond bears his teeth along the slender curve of Lindir’s throat. 

He licks once across the area he’ll take, watches Lindir’s supple shiver, then sinks in his fangs.

Lindir cries out instantly, chest arching forward, body tensing, and Elrond curls his fingers deep inside Lindir’s channel, stroking all the spots that he knows Lindir loves, and Lindir’s ragged scream dies into a tortured moan. Elrond’s only breached the surface of Lindir’s neck, but he sinks no further, even though he longs to clamp down for all he’s worth. He fucks Lindir mercilessly with his fingers until Lindir’s fallen into subtle whimpers, and only then does Elrond push deeper, as slow as he can manage. When he’s locked tight around Lindir’s skin, he gives a little suck, and the blood rushes into him, drawn to his fangs. He laps it hungrily away as it fills his throat, unwilling to spill any of it. Even with just that first sip, he feels the energy come back into his body. Lindir squirms lightly beneath him, impaled in two places, and moans a broken remnant of Elrond’s name.

He’s a beautiful creature. The best Elrond could ever ask for. And he deserves so much better than this. But it’s too late to stop. He tastes _delicious_ , and he sounds exquisite and reeks of sex. He fits so well in Elrond’s lap. He gives himself over so obediently. He never once tries to get away. He only takes what he’s given and gives all he can, even risks his very life.

Elrond would never take so much. He’s rationed himself for centuries, and he’s full quickly. He doesn’t allow himself a drop more than he needs. He stops sucking but stays buried in, only so he doesn’t wrench away and jar Lindir. He redoubles his efforts between Lindir’s legs, until Lindir is sweating and gasping and nearly crying in his throes. His body is half limp in Elrond’s arms, but his eyes still have life beneath them, and his skin is only a shade lighter than its usual peach. Elrond withdraws his fangs slowly, to which Lindir shivers again, but does no more. Elrond licks over the two holes afterwards, and his saliva knits the tiny wounds back together, until only small bruises remain.

Lindir moans languidly and turns his face into Elrond’s throat, burrowing in. He’s given all his strength, and Elrond knows he hasn’t retained enough to orgasm. Elrond fingers him a while longer anyway, just to make sure that it’s pleasure that lulls him to sleep instead of pain.

Soon Lindir’s tired himself out, and he’s mumbling a broken, “Sorry,” while he nuzzles into Elrond. Elrond withdraws both fingers, wipes them off on Lindir’s already-stained thigh, and gently turns him around again. He cuddles instantly into Elrond’s embrace, blearily murmuring, “Thank you,” though Elrond is the one full of gratitude.

Elrond kisses his forehead. There’s no chance for greater discussion. With a gentle smile on his fair lips, Lindir’s already asleep.

Elrond, fully refreshed, straightens Lindir’s robes and carries him off to bed.


	2. Nightingale

Elrond has little taste for wine, but Lindir keeps his glass full anyway—it seems a necessity, given their present company. King Thranduil is an excellent host, but his skills as a guest leave much to be desired. His party puts a tremendous strain on the kitchens, and he always demands a lavish feast on the first night he arrives, though his visits are hardly oddities. Lindir spends half the night attending to one shortage after another, the other standing dutifully behind his lord’s chair, vainly trying to stifle his burning jealousy.

He has no right to hoard Lord Elrond, but it’s still difficult to watch Thranduil parade so many young elves before him, each more scantily clad than the last. Near the end of the feast, Thranduil even pulls a honey-haired boy into his lap and chortles drunkenly to Elrond, “He has a pretty neck, don’t you think?” The elf’s robes barely cover his shoulders, and Thranduil curls a hand under his chin to hold it up, baring everything. 

Elrond is stoic and silent, but Lindir can see the hunger in his eyes. They flash through the candlelit night, darker than the wine. Thranduil pulls the young elf’s hair back and kisses his shoulder; he giggles and squirms.

He looks a vapid, useless thing, and Lindir finds himself despising both the unsuspecting rival and King Thranduil. Thranduil toys with the elf for a bit, eliciting different sounds wholly inappropriate for public, and eventually seems to realize that Elrond won’t be sharing in that depravity. When Thranduil finally releases the young elf and shoos him off, Lindir’s fury seeps away. He replaces it with guilt; he must remind himself that Elrond is hardly _his_ , and he has no business thinking ill of a king. When Thranduil waves him over, he hurries to fill Thranduil’s cup.

He keeps it flowing all night, even when Thranduil has clearly had too much and begins to tease Elrond in a quiet purr, “I am sure you wonder still how _I_ taste, but I think that delicacy too rich for your blood.” Elrond gives a tolerant smile but doesn’t rise to the bait. A spark of panic rises in Lindir’s chest; he knows he could never compete with the Woodland King.

He doesn’t have to. Having stayed entirely sober, Lindir outlasts his guests, and finally, even the most robust of Thranduil’s party are stumbling off towards their guest rooms. Thranduil is the last to leave, after a lengthy discussion with Elrond that Lindir wasn’t privy too, having been busy confiscating arrows from the twins. 

Having become a nocturnal creature, Elrond remains until all his guests are gone. He lounges pensively in his chair, occasionally sipping the remnants of his wine, while servants clean the open dining hall around him. Lindir considers going to him, asking if he has all he needs, but eyeing the head table brings back images of Thranduil’s offers. Another glass, and he might’ve laid one down across Elrond’s plate to insist on a tasting. Lindir shivers at the thought and busies himself elsewhere, sweeping the earth’s refuse across the hall outside and into the other courtyard. 

Alone, Lindir reflects and tries to calm himself again. There’s no use being bitter. He knows what he is and how much higher his lord stands. Still, he’s upset himself enough that he doesn’t join the rest of his team in their efforts about the tables as he probably should. He needs a few moments just to decompress. He even considers retiring early. Erestor wouldn’t be pleased to learn of it, but he’s only skimped on his duties before directly after feeding his lord, and he knows no one else would begrudge him a break. By the time he’s finished sweeping, he’s decided.

He turns back towards the dining area, but the doorway’s already filled. Elrond slips through, looking just as grand and regal as ever, completely untouched by alcohol. He doesn’t even smell of it. The only thing different about him is the dilation of his pupils, and Lindir only notices that because he’s spent so many years eyeing his beloved lord. The pale moonlight slips in through the arches along the other side of the hall, the rest caught in shadows. Lindir fidgets, then sets the broom against the wall, adopting proper posture with which to bow to Elrond.

As he rises again, Elrond asks, frowning, “What troubles you, my Lindir?”

The possessive ‘my’ sends a flare of heat across Lindir’s cheeks. He knows Elrond means it innocently, but it still has a powerful effect. He doesn’t know how to answer at first—he never wants to burden Elrond with his petty troubles—and Elrond continues, “I know the woodland delegation often puts a strain on your team, but at least this time, it has born good results.” Lindir quirks his head to the side, curious, and Elrond takes a step closer, right before him, less than an arm’s length away. Elrond dons a small, strained smile, and says, “He has brought willing warriors with him, ones that can bear my bite and tide me over, so that you need no longer carry that burden.”

All the breath leaves Lindir’s body. He averts his eyes quickly, because he knows they’ll betray him. He didn’t think Elrond actually responded to that offer, but of course, Lindir knows he should’ve guessed as much. Thranduil’s subjects are all tempting. Lindir wets his lips and finds his voice cracking when he repeats, “Burden?”

Elrond sighs. It’s remorseful, but he’s always like that when he hungers, even though there’s nothing to be ashamed of. He isn’t the monster Morgoth might have intended. He reaches out, his hand landing on Lindir’s shoulder, his long fingers spreading to give a little squeeze, and Lindir nearly trembles. Elrond murmurs, “I do not like hurting you, Lindir. You are so gracious, but you are still gentle. You are a minstrel, a creature of such _beauty_. To plague you with such savagery...”

Lindir’s shaking, and he has to wrench his shoulder out of Elrond’s grasp, even though he _never_ runs from Elrond’s touch. To have Elrond call him beautiful is too much, and he knows he can’t let Elrond think that he can’t handle it. He insists, “It does not hurt, my lord—”

“Lindir...”

“It does _not_ ,” Lindir presses, head snapping up, and the concern all over Elrond’s face only makes it worse. The fear of _losing Elrond_ is suddenly too much to keep his mouth shut. He amends, “Or if it does, I hardly feel it—I want it too badly. I _love_ it.” Elrond’s brows lift, and Lindir can feel his face flushing deeper, but now it’s too late to turn back. “I do. I _crave_ it. I love being the one to satiate you, and to know that I can sustain such a great lord... it is an honour...”

Now Elrond looks only saddened, and he soothes, “You have always been very good to me, Lindir, but it is not your job to serve me this way...”

“But I _wish_ to.” With a desperate little laugh, Lindir risks: “You do not understand, my lord. It is not duty that compels me to your feet, though I would fulfill you in all ways. It is... it is _pleasurable_ for me. Not... not simply in the way you touch me during it...” He lifts a hand to cover his face, finds his cheek burning, and all but moans over the memories, “I _love_ to think of you taking me. I adore the way you look at me when you are hungry, and I... I know it is selfish, but I would have you look at no other that way. It is such an intimate thing, my lord, and to be the only one you claim so...”

He trails off, breath hitching, and shakes his head, hanging it, to mutter, “I am sorry. I am. You will have other tastes, of course. It is not my place to monopolize your glass...”

“But you would?” Elrond quietly asks. “...Given the choice, knowing that others may sustain me... you would have me feed on only you, knowing that this bloodlust is insatiable, that it will come again and again, no matter how many times I have hurt you...”

“You have never hurt me,” Lindir insists. His eyes catch with Elrond’s, and he admits, “Yes. I would have you come to me every time.”

Elrond is silent for a moment, clearly lost in thought, though he holds Lindir’s gaze. He’s hungry now, Lindir can tell; it’s been months since he last drank Lindir across the desk in his office. Lindir’s offered many times since, but now he knows what Elrond was holding out for. He wishes he didn’t.

Slowly, Elrond says, “I do not wish to drink from any other.” Lindir’s heart leaps, beating fast, though Elrond adds, “But I must be considerate. You are young and lovely, and to use you so...”

“Use me,” Lindir interrupts, stepping closer, though there’s hardly any room between them. If Elrond still breathed, Lindir would feel his breath. “My lord, please. If that is true, if you wish it of me, claim it from me. I promise, it will not interfere with my duties. ...Or it can, if you like, and I will be nothing but your courtesan; I would gladly wait in your bed to serve any of your needs. I would do nothing else. I—”

His words are muffled in a sudden kiss, his head jerked forward, strong fingers entwined in his hair. His lips part instantly, not from surprise but excitement, and he waits for Elrond’s tongue to fill him, but Elrond wrenches back instead. He looks at Lindir, fierce to the point of being feral. Perhaps Thranduil’s presentations did get to him, but Lindir’s still pleased he waited for _this_ to act. Then Elrond murmurs, “I am sorry, my songbird.”

“I am yours, my lord.” Lindir’s already breathless. He takes hold of his own collar, deftly unfastening it. 

Elrond slips a hand beneath his chin and tilts it up, then mutters along his jaw, “I command you to stop me if you feel pain, if I take too much, if I—”

Lindir whines a needy, “ _Elrond_ ,” that drowns the order out. Elrond doesn’t press it, just opens his mouth, his tongue ghosting heat along Lindir’s skin. Lindir’s hands slide up Elrond’s broad shoulders, clinging there, and they tense at the first sting. Elrond’s fangs pierce into him, small but sharp, and Lindir dares to thread his hand into several strands of Elrond’s long hair. The contact instantly downplays the pain. He breathes in deep, inhaling the rich scent of _Elrond_ , and it gives him such delight that he brokenly pleads again, “Elrond...”

Elrond’s jaw closes around Lindir’s, the bite deep, but the suction that comes is slow and strangely gentle. The rush of blood to that one area is still dizzying. Elrond drinks only a little bit, then gradually withdraws, and laps the holes closed afterwards, though Lindir would happily keep them for trophies. After he’s been bit, he always touches the fading bruises when he brings himself off in his quarters. Elrond is always what he thinks of. 

Elrond nips lightly at his throat, down to his collarbone, then runs both hands down Lindir’s thighs, and suddenly, he’s hiking Lindir up, and Lindir’s pinned against the wall.

Elrond maneuvers to flatten him against it, kisses him hard, and Lindir doesn’t even mind the coppery taste—he’s so busy clinging to Elrond’s shoulders and sucking on Elrond’s tongue. He wishes he’d forgone tights and undergarments beneath his robe, and he desperately hopes that Elrond’s going to touch him again. Elrond ends the kiss to ask, “You would serve _all_ my needs?”

Lindir nods quickly, which gives him another dizzy spell, and he murmurs, “Yes, _yes_ , please...” He’s kissed fiercely, and Elrond begins to roll up his robes. 

It’s a tangled mess to get them open, to get his tights rolled down his thighs, but they manage, Elrond doing most of it—Lindir can barely think straight. They’ve only kissed once or twice before, never like _this_ , and Elrond always withdrew afterwards, but now he covers Lindir in one after the other, and Lindir savours every brush of Elrond’s tongue, teeth, and fangs. Elrond pulls everything away, until his hands are raking over Lindir’s bare ass, and Lindir’s already wet for it. He gets wet so easily at the mere prospect of Elrond; the real thing is overwhelming. Elrond slides a hand between his thighs and kneads it; Lindir arches back and moans.

Elrond’s mouth traces his throat. Lindir knows that’s Elrond’s favourite part of him, but he’d offer up everywhere else too. He longs for the nights they could spend in bed, Elrond licking and tasting each new part of him. Elrond’s other hand leaves him, and he whines at the loss, only to hear the rustle of fabric and realize what it’s doing.

Something spongy and warm presses against his slit, and Elrond hisses, “Do you want this, too?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lindir moans. He would say more, would beg with delight, but Elrond’s cock presses forward, and Lindir breaks off in a cry. It pushes hard enough to pop inside him, and just the head is enough to make him go wild. Elrond holds him steady against the wall and moves just a little bit at a time, though Lindir tries to buck forward against his grip and take it all.

Fangs scrape along his neck, curving around to the side, and they sink in before Elrond’s cock is fully home. The dual sensations are overpowering, and Lindir screams himself hoarse in a heartbeat, but it’s a good scream—a wondrous feeling—the bite only intensifies the sex. Elrond surges down until his mouth is stretched wide and completely locked around Lindir’s skin, and his cock is completely buried in Lindir’s channel. For that first minute, all Lindir can do is soak it in, fighting for consciousness around both points of impalement.

Then he wants _more_ , and he clenches, trying to make Elrond feel as good as he does. Elrond groans against his throat and begins to slide out, only to shove forward again, pounding Lindir back into the wall. Lindir’s completely lost his grip; Elrond is all that holds him up. But Elrond’s strong enough for both of them. Elrond works into a rhythm on his own, driving in and out at too slow a pace but going so deep every time. The sensation of being _full_ is like nothing else, and Elrond makes it better with each thrust, grinding along Lindir’s walls. Lindir can feel his blood trickle out of him as he secretes all around Elrond’s cock. The wet squelching noises are doubled, but his own panting practically drowns it out. His heart’s pounding in his ears. The simple thought of _Elrond inside him_ is already more than he can take.

Elrond pulls his mouth free to soon, but only to lick down Lindir’s shoulder and take another bite, ripping the robes away—Lindir cries and writhes, helplessly trying to fill himself more. Elrond takes him steadily, and by the time that bite is over, Lindir’s right at the edge. Elrond always brings him there shamefully quickly. The blood loss doesn’t help. He hazily watches Elrond pull back to lick his lips, then bend forward to give Lindir a chaste kiss. Lindir doesn’t have the wherewithal to respond; he just keens and clenches. Elrond pries his mouth open and deepens the kiss, arms wrapping tight around his middle to hold him close. The angle changes, and Lindir mewls for it. Elrond doesn’t stop.

Elrond licks back along his lips and whispers in his ear, “Thank you, my Lindir.”

Lindir tries to thank Elrond in return. He tries to moan Elrond’s name and tries to profess his love, but the words slip away from him. Another thrust, and he’s finished; he barrels into the end and bursts, coming hard and crying out. His vision blurs, his body lost in a sea of clouds—his perception of weight, time, and temperature stretch and fall away. 

He passes out in Elrond’s arms, but when he wakes, he’s in Elrond’s bed, and their time together has only just begun.


End file.
